


Behind the Glass Wall

by iron_parkr



Category: Avengers: Endgame - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Fluff and Angst, I wrote this instead of packing for school, Parent Pepper Potts, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is a Good Bro, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), References to Depression, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 05:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_parkr/pseuds/iron_parkr
Summary: I'm fine, Peter says. His tongue has become so accustomed to the words they fall right off before he can think about it. They are stale, tasteless in his mouth. They make him want to claw his heart out from behind his ribcage and place it behind a wall of glass instead.You have to be fine, his brain says. Just be like everyone else for once and suck it up.But he's not fine. Definitely not fine.





	Behind the Glass Wall

**Author's Note:**

> So I went to the Marvel: Universe of Super Heroes exhibit at the Franklin Institute in Philly the other day, got inspired, and this is what came out of my brain. Hope you enjoy it!

_ I’m fine _, Peter says.

“I’m fine,” he tells May.

“I’m fine,” he assures Pepper.

“I’m fine,” he says to Happy.

“I’m… getting better,” he answers when Morgan asks. He can never lie to her.

But his tongue has become so accustomed to the words they fall right off before he can think about it. They are stale, tasteless in his mouth. They make him want to claw his heart out from behind his ribcage and place it behind a wall of glass instead.

There are times he’s not lying. He’ll read Morgan a bedtime story with stupid voices that make her giggle during his visits to the lake house. He teases May when her cooking comes out less than stellar and offers to run to Mr. Delmar’s new bodega. He laughs so hard he spits out his chocolate milk at lunch with Ned and MJ. There are times he thinks that maybe things will be okay, that maybe he really is getting better.

And then he’ll see the street art, the graffiti, the many thousands of drawings and paintings still proudly displayed in homage to the man who saved the universe, and the façade he’s built will come crashing down yet again.

Everyone at Midtown thinks he’s doing it for attention. They don’t say anything, but he knows they do. Or they would if half of them hadn’t also spontaneously stopped existing. That’s what most people his age lie about now. They pretend it doesn’t bother them that they lost five years of their lives or that they’re suddenly older than their siblings. Peter always thought _ Class of 2019 _ sounded ridiculous, but _ Class of 2025 _? It makes his brain hurt in more ways than one.

School itself has just become so monotonous for Peter. Sit in an uncomfortable chair, listen to an underpaid and overworked teacher drone on about a concept they know the students won’t care about but they’re required to teach, eat bland cafeteria food and endure a whole hour of kids yelling back and forth across the tables. Not to mention the constant threat of a sensory overload every goddamn day. If his senses were dialed to an eleven before, they’re at a twenty, minimum. And that’s on a good day.

Add in the worst nightmares he’s ever had in his life, and yeah, Peter’s doing just fine.

_ You have to be fine, _ his brain says. _ Other people have it so much worse than you. Just be like everyone else for once and suck it up. _

“Peter?”

Pepper’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts and his head shoots up, eyes wide. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and only when he sees the faded old couch, the wooden staircase leading upstairs, the faint outline of Gerald behind the shades in the window, does he let himself relax. He’s not anywhere he shouldn’t be. He’s safe. He’s home.

After a second, he realizes that Pepper’s looking at him.

“Y-Yeah, sorry, I kind of zoned out a little,” he says, trying for casual and ending up with a notch below slightly suspicious. “What’s up?”

Pepper raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on it. “Morgan’s waiting for you outside.”

_ Shit. _

Peter shoots to his feet and he’s out the door before Pepper can even finish, calling over his shoulder, “Thanks for reminding me!”

It’s a warm day, rare for this time of the year. The trees surrounding the house are all green, but across the way, the leaves look like a rippling fire every time the wind blows. Pretty soon the birds will be giving one final symphony before heading south and according to Morgan, the whole lake will freeze solid, just as it has every year she’s been alive.

As he steps off the porch and walks down to the lake, he can’t stop replaying the conversation in his head, second-guessing everything from his words to his tone of voice. Could she tell? Did she hear how his voice trembled, how it was just a little too high?

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid, _ his brain screams. _ You call that being fine? _

He finds Morgan at the edge of the dock, waiting patiently just like her mother instructed. Where most kids probably would have jumped into the water already, Morgan just isn’t capable of not following directions. Of course, she has her moments like every young kid does, but when it comes to safety, like staying on the dock until an adult (or Peter) is there to watch her swim, she does exactly what she’s told.

She definitely did not inherit that from her father.

“Hi, Petey!” she calls with a wave. He’s been at the lake house for almost two days and Morgan still greets him with the same enthusiasm that she did when he first arrived.

“Sorry it took me so long, Mo,” Peter says, brushing some hair out of his face. “You can head in now.”

Squealing with delight, Morgan skips across the length of the dock, grabs Peter’s hand, and drags him to the little beach off to the side. Peter leans against the edge of the boat and watches as she splashes and dives and makes waves that travel out to the middle of the lake. The water has to be cold, but Morgan doesn’t seem to mind.

_ She’s going to grow up without a father. _

The thought comes unbidden to his mind and Peter almost visibly recoils.

_ She’ll find out someday, _ his brain whispers, and if a brain could sneer, his would be. _ One day Morgan will know that Mr. Stark chose you over her and then she’ll hate you, just like everyone else. _

Peter’s stomach does flips. He covers his face with his hands and counts to ten, twenty, thirty, to calm himself down, to make the voice go away. When he lifts his head, Morgan is looking back at him, her big brown Bambi eyes full of concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

_ I’m fine, _ he starts to say, but the flat taste of the words makes him stop. He can’t lie to Morgan. Instead, he says, “I’m… getting better.”

Morgan apparently deems that an acceptable answer and returns to her imaginary battle against the monster she insists lives at the bottom of the lake.

Maybe Morgan won’t grow up with her dad around, but she has Pepper. She has Pepper and Colonel Rhodes and the blue chick from space and Hawkeye’s kids and Peter. God, if there’s one thing Peter will absolutely make sure of, it’s that he’ll be there for Morgan Stark. Not just because he knows it’s what Mr. Stark would have wanted, not just because of the guilt that eats away at him every time he looks at her, but because he’s the best big brother in the world to the best little sister in the world and that’s his job.

Still, for the rest of the weekend, Peter can’t quite meet Morgan’s eyes.

* * *

After the relative peace and tranquility of the lake house, going back to school on Monday is a shock to Peter’s system. Voices bounce off the walls, carrying down the halls from teachers in classrooms on the second floor and students yelling in the cafeteria and two kids getting high in the bathroom down in the Math wing. Bodies he does not know touch him, invading more of his space with each step he takes. Peter winces as locker doors slam shut and books scrape against the metal shelves inside.

_ Quit complaining, you big baby _ , his brain says. _ You’ve literally been to space. You can handle a little noise for one day. _

His skin burns under the collar of his shirt and the tops of his sneakers dig into his Achilles tendons like a knife waiting to carve him open, but he agrees with the voice for once. He went to outer space. He can deal.

The day crawls by. One class after another, lectures upon lectures upon lectures. Peter’s all but dragging his feet by the time eighth block rolls around. He settles into his seat at the back of his last class and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, holding back a yawn. He’s so tired he can hardly remember which subject he has right now—a particularly bad nightmare had him up and awake well before dawn—but he’s in the right room so he doesn’t care.

Peter puts his head on the desk as other students trickle in. MJ sits down next to him and gives him a nod of acknowledgment before burying her nose in her book again. Peter doesn’t pay attention to anything other than keeping his eyes open and not giving his teacher a reason to write him up.

When the bell rings, Mr. Ryan lifts his hand to get everyone’s attention.

“I’m gonna be honest with you guys,” he says, “I feel like crap but we’re short on subs, so I have to be in today. I really don’t feel like teaching so we’re just going to watch a movie that only kind of has something to do with history and pretend we learned something new today. Sound good?”

Everyone agrees wholeheartedly.

Mr. Ryan has Jen in the front row help him set up the computer and projector while the class whispers amongst themselves. Peter hears all about what Owen and Kirby did over the weekend and how stressed Tabatha is for Dr. J’s Chemistry test on Thursday and where Althea got her Homecoming dress, which is apparently a _ gorgeous _ sea green. Their words roll in one ear, out the other.

Someone turns off the lights. Despite his best efforts, Peter’s eyelids droop dangerously low. He struggles to lift them, but it’s a losing battle.

He falls asleep.

For a while, it’s all just black. No dreams, no nightmares. Only that weird in-between stage where he knows he’s asleep and he’s just waiting to fall deeper into the pull of unconsciousness.

Then he finds himself in the ruins of the Avengers compound upstate, surrounded by fires and debris, but everything is quiet. There are no gunshots or screams. The whole place seems deserted apart from him, no one fighting for their lives or control of the gauntlet.

Peter glances around in confusion. He knows he’s dreaming. He’s had nightmares that have started eerily similar before. There has to be a reason his subconscious is making him come back here.

He finds his reason in the form of a small gathering of people, just past where the swimming pool used to be. Peter doesn’t want to go toward them, but he feels himself being tugged forward, like an invisible hand with a string wrapped around his torso. It pulls and pulls until he’s right next to them and he sees the scene that’s been burned into his memory—Mr. Stark, right side blackened and scarred beyond recognition, slumped against a pile of rubble; Colonel Rhodes standing a few feet away, tears painting his dusty cheeks; Pepper kneeling in front of her husband, her hand on the arc reactor, assuring him that it’s okay, they’ll be okay.

Peter wants to curl into a ball and never come back out.

But this time there’s someone new. A tiny someone, whose small body had initially been hidden behind her mother’s.

“Morgan,” Peter breathes.

But when she turns to look at him, it’s not with concern or compassion. She no longer looks young and innocent, carefree, with just a hint of baby fat still on her angelic face. She’s much older, older than Peter, even. Her eyes are full of broken promises and disappointments and so much more that Peter had hoped she would never have to experience. In her features is an anger, a loathing that makes Peter flinch.

“You stole him,” she hisses, accusatory and hostile. “You took him from me. It’s all your fault.”

Peter opens his mouth, though he’s not sure what he could even say to that, but the words won’t form on his tongue.

“You’re the reason Dad’s dead,” says Morgan, and she’s right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. It’s all his fault, all his fault. “That’s his legacy, Peter. Not me, not Mom. You killing him.” Then she drives the final nail into the coffin: “I hate you.”

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

His heart shatters into a million tiny pieces and Peter just wants to sweep them up and put them behind that wall of glass. He moves toward her, raises a hand to cup her face like he does now when she’s scared of the monster under her bed, but a different hand latches onto his wrist. Peter looks down to see Mr. Stark clutching onto him, gripping him so tightly it hurts. His expression is dead, which is even worse than any emotion it could hold.

“Why?” is all he asks before he goes limp again, his fingers still curled around Peter’s wrist.

“I’m sorry!” Peter screams. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark! Morgan, I-I’m so sorry!”

“Peter?” someone calls from a thousand miles away.

Peter just shakes his head, trying and failing not to collapse in on himself with a sob. Tears drip off his eyelashes as he screws his eyes shut. He can’t look at them, can’t face them again knowing what he’s done.

That someone’s voice is a lot closer this time as they shout, “Peter!”

His head shoots up from the desk, eyes wide open and brimming with tears. Heart racing, the words fall from his lips like a stone in the open air with no end in sight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Arms circle around him and just hold him, rocking back and forth. There’s a voice in his ear shushing him. Not trying to quiet him, trying to calm him. His chest heaves as another sob rips from his throat.

Peter glances up for a moment and he freezes all of a sudden. Just like that, his apologies die in his throat that’s already closing up and the crying stops and he just stares in horror at the SMART board.

_ “Tell him about the dance-off to save the universe.” _

_ “Like in _ Footloose _ , the movie?” _

_ “Exactly like _ Footloose! _ Is it still the greatest movie in history?” _

_ “It never was.” _

Kevin Bacon grins at whatshername and Peter’s chest constricts and he can’t breathe. He’s falling apart again, being torn away piece by piece, inch by inch, until all that’s left is dust, dust, dust. Quill’s voice rings in his ears, his quiet “Oh, man,” bouncing through his head until it’s the only thing occupying any space up there.

Peter pushes at the arms and they retract. He needs air, he needs space. Not _ that _ kind of space. The space where he can actually breathe and his heart isn’t a jackhammer in his chest. His eyes dart around the room, brain working on overdrive to find the fastest exit.

Front door—too far away, too many bodies to pass through.

Back door—blocked by desks and a panic-stricken Mr. Ryan.

One option left.

Peter doesn’t even think as he jams his backpack onto his shoulders, shoves open the window, and kicks. Shouts ring out behind him. His foot connects with the screen in a solid hit and it pops right off. He stands up on his chair and scrambles over the counter and out the window, dropping the ten or so feet to the ground below. As soon as his feet hit the grass, he takes off running, sprinting across the lawn and the football field and down the street, as if he can escape from his memories and the mountain of guilt inside him that way.

* * *

Hardly a month after the battle at the compound, after the snaps that brought everyone back and saved the universe, an anonymous group of New Yorkers erected an Iron Man statue outside of Central Park, the first of many throughout the city. It stood tall and proud, a reminder of the man himself, of the confident and suave hero the whole world loved and mourned.

Peter always tries to avoid it if he can. For one thing, looking at it only deepens the wound in his heart and widens the hole in his life. For another, it just bothers him. He knows the real Iron Man, the real Tony Stark, and he knows that the whole ‘confident billionaire’ act is just that—an act. He learned firsthand that Mr. Stark wasn’t this unshakable wall of a man with no fear that the public and the tabloids made him out to be. Mr. Stark had lots of fears. Some he shared. Some he didn’t. But he taught Peter, in words and actions, that there was nothing wrong with that. That even superheroes could be afraid.

As he stands in front of the statue now, hood up to block the light rain that’s begun to fall, Peter doesn’t feel much like a superhero. He feels small, weak. Like the sixteen-year-old kid he is.

Everyone has a lot of questions about the future. Who’s going to take over the job the Avengers left behind and defend the Earth from new threats? Who’s going to step up and lead the new generation of heroes now that the old is gone?

Who will be the next Iron Man?

They ask him this, as Spider-Man. Ask if he will be able to fill Tony Stark’s impossibly large shoes. If he is going to be the next Iron Man.

He stares up into the stone face standing guard over Central Park. As much as Peter loves Iron Man and the man behind the mask, he doesn’t want to _ be _ Iron Man. Doesn’t want that responsibility. He wants to be Spider-Man, the one and only.

_ You can’t always get what you want, _ his brain hisses.

Peter’s shoulders are hunched over, weighed down by the burden the rest of the world has placed on them. Even if he hadn’t been the one to kill Tony Stark, he knows he is, to some extent, part of Mr. Stark’s legacy. Not as much as Morgan, obviously. But enough to be significant. Enough to be a possible footnote in the biography of Mr. Stark’s life.

Enough that it’s too much.

Too much expectation and too much pressure and too much for an anxiety-ridden, nightmare-prone sixteen-year-old kid to handle.

_ What’s so special about you anyway? _ asks his brain. _ You’re nothing. You’re just a stupid kid with the shittiest luck in the entire world. _

Peter turns away from the memorial and walks down Fifth Avenue, ignoring the weight of his phone in the pocket of his hoodie. He turned it off after he finally calmed down from his nightmare-slash-panic-attack when the incessant vibrating got on his last nerve. May’s smiling face and Ned’s ridiculous picture just embarrassed him even more than his little episode.

Rain falls harder on his hood. He should head home, he knows that. At the very least he should call May and tell her where he is, how long he’ll be out, but he can’t bring himself to talk to anyone right now. He doesn’t think he has the capacity for words, let alone the energy.

_ You’re pathetic, _ his brain screams, and Peter can’t really argue with that.

* * *

All told, there is no punishment. He explains to May, in as little words and details as possible, what happened at school, and she just nods, giving him that sympathetic smile he’s come to hate. There’s nothing wrong with him. At least nothing he can’t handle on his own. He’s not some stupid, helpless little kid anymore.

_ Except you are, _ his brain reminds him.

The rest of the week passes without incident, though not without its annoyances. Ned walks on eggshells around him. MJ keeps an eye on him from a distance, like she always does. No one in his History class can pay attention on Tuesday because they’re all too busy watching him, waiting to see if he’ll have another freak-out. Mr. Ryan comes up to him after class that day and asks, albeit a bit awkwardly, how he’s doing, if there’s anything he can do to help Peter.

Peter looks at Mr. Ryan with dead eyes and a dead expression to hide his very not dead heart and gives him his classic line: “I’m fine.”

When the weekend arrives, Peter feels the tension ease from his shoulders the closer he gets to the lake house. He’s come to relish these trips, to appreciate every minute of quiet he has with Pepper and Morgan. In the back of his mind, he wonders how much longer he can hide the bright red label of blame he’s put on himself, how much longer he has until they agree with his brain and cast him out of their lives for good. But when Morgan runs up to him and smashes into him with the biggest hug she can muster, and when Pepper sits with him late at night after another nightmare and regales him with stories about some of the dumb stuff Mr. Stark did when he was younger, Peter manages to push his worries aside for a little bit longer and just enjoy the moment.

Peter lets out a sudden _ oof _ as Morgan lands on top of him on the couch.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asks, all smiles and curiosity.

“Nothin’ much, little munch,” Peter replies, matching her casual tone.

Morgan giggles at the nickname and lays down on Peter’s stomach, face pointed toward the ceiling. One of Peter’s arms comes to rest across her tiny body. Morgan takes his hand in her own and plays with his fingers, making them dance to a beat in her head. They’re quiet for a while. Listening to each other’s breathing.

Then, in her small, innocent voice, she breaks the silence. “Mommy said you made Miss May scared the other day.”

“She did?” Peter’s brows furrow.

Morgan nods and Peter can feel her head move against his chest, feel her hair scratch at his neck.

“What else did she say?” he asks.

“That I should give you lots and lots and _ lots _of hugs when you come to visit,” she says, and as she does she flips herself over so that their stomachs are flush and their noses are inches apart. Morgan tries her best to put her arms around his body. They don’t quite make it past the point where his skin meets the leather of the couch, but it’s the thought that counts. She rests her head on his chest. “Daddy always says I give the bestest hugs.”

Peter can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, and he wraps his own arms around her in return. “Well, he’s right, Mo. You definitely give the bestest hugs.”

After another small stretch of silence, Morgan tells him, very matter-of-factly, “You’re my favorite big brother.”

“I’m your only big brother,” Peter reminds her.

“That’s why you’re my favorite, though,” she says. She lifts her head to look at him and her voice drops to a fake whisper. “But don’t tell anyone else.”

Peter laughs again. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Guess what?” she says, still in that theater whisper. “I love you 3000.”

Morgan settles her head back on his chest and Peter watches as it rises and falls with his breaths. Something in his heart bursts open, breaking down the glass wall he’d tried to hide it behind, filling him with so much love and awe for this tiny person on top of him, who trusts him and loves him in return, even despite the flaws his brain constantly reminds him of.

“I love you, too, Morgan,” he responds, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

“Are you all better now?” she asks quietly.

Peter pauses for a moment, weighing the question in his head.

“No,” he answers truthfully. “But I think I will be. Eventually.”

And for the first time in a long time, he really believes it.


End file.
